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I blinked a few times. “I wanted to help you.”
“Why?” His growl was more savage this time, more primal.
I was feeling it all the way between my legs, and I was beginning to throb.
“Because…” I licked my lips.
I wanted him.
Now.
Not later.
Not in a minute.
Now.
I began rubbing against him, and he was already hard. He was really hard. “Kash,” I murmured.
He grasped my other wrist and pinned it above my head.
His head still pushed so he was breathing on me, he angled his hips back.
I mewled, wanting him back where he’d been.
“You seem to mistake the position you’re in here.”
He was cold.
My eyes snapped to his face.
A whole slew of shivers moved through me.
The rational part of me, the side that thought, was telling me to proceed with caution. He was starting to lose control, a little edge at a time. But the feeling side of me, the body part of me, was starving. It’d been twelve hours ago when he left me in bed, and my mission to help had already been made up in my mind. It’d been the only thing that held me back and let me watch him leave the room. If I hadn’t decided that, I couldn’t have let him leave. If he had gone or not, neither of us would’ve known the outcome of that fight. But it was what it was.
Some of those memories were splashing reality on him. I was sputtering in the cold, and I searched his gaze again and felt chilled to the bone.
“You wouldn’t hurt me,” I said, not thinking.
His eyes flashed.
I knew he wouldn’t. But in bed… yes. He would hurt me there, in a good way. He would punish me.
A raw snarl ripped from low in his throat, and his hips slammed against me.
“I told you not to push me.”
I was pushing.
“Bailey,” he rasped out.
He was losing his restraint.
Please.
Yes.
I was moving before I knew I was moving.
